It Wasn't An Accident
by DirtiestWhiteBoyInAmerica
Summary: Mickey didn't kick him out of his bed. He didn't wake him up like the asshole he was. He let him sleep. He let him pull Mickey on top of him in his sleep. He stayed exactly there listening to the slow and steady heart beat underneath him


It was too hot to be wrapped in the other boy's body as if he were trying to melt into him. It was too hot to be buried under covers trying to hide from the world. It was just too fucking hot.

It didn't stop them though.

Mickey was still awake. He couldn't fall asleep. His nerves were on the fringe. He wanted to run away and never fucking come back. He wanted to pretend that none of the bullshit of emotions had happened. He wanted to pretend that it would be so easy to peel himself from the strong hold of Ian to walk out. To walk out like nothing had happened. He couldn't bring himself to do it and he hated himself for that.

He couldn't even come up with a reason as to why it was excusable for them to be so blindly wrapped in each other while the redhead slept. They hadn't had sex. They weren't exhausted from tearing each others clothes off and going at each other like savages, screaming, and cursing, and biting at the other.

Not even close. Both of them still had every single piece of clothes on except for their shoes. All that had happened was absolutely fucking nothing. They were doing nothing but talking before Ian fell asleep. Talking about trivial shit. As if they were a couple. Mickey didn't kick him out of his bed. He didn't wake him up like the asshole he was. He let him sleep. He let him pull Mickey on top of him in his sleep. He stayed exactly there listening to the slow and steady heart beat underneath him wondering when the fuck he had turned into such a faggot.

He just laid there and counted the freckles on his Gallagher's shoulder knowing full and well that had Ian woke up at Mickey's lazy smile Mickey would punch him in the eye.

Because he had a reputation to uphold, by God.

He had 106 freckles on his left shoulder. The luck of the Irish. Going in the sun resulted in more of the little brown spots and he knew that if they would laid like this again in a month he'd have at least 10 more of those freckles.

He absolutely hated that he knew that. He hated that he acknowledged that this position would happen again. He absolutely despised the fact thay he wouldn't mind even in the least.

He jumped when Ian interlocked his fingers together at the small of Mickey's back. His eyes flitted toward him. He was still asleep. Still snoring. Still looking smug as fuck.

Even in the fuckers sleep he knew the shit he could get away with. Who the fuck looks so goddamn content? Who the fuck has a right to?

Mickey hated emotions. He hated getting complicated. He couldn't remember when his Gallagher had turned into more than just a quick fuckin tthe back of a convience store. He didn't remember when he started giving a fuck about him. He didn't care too. The thought terrified him

He hated it. He hated how movies glorified love as so simple. It's anything but. He cringed at how they made it seem like once you were in love all your problems slipped away and life was flowers and sunshine from then on because you had your "soulmate" right next to you.

The movies never mentioned how if you fell in love you'd get killed, or beaten, or just how fucking easily the asshole you're in love with could walk all the fuck over you and you'd put up with it happily 'cause you just wanted them to stay around.

Mickey wasnt in love though. He would deny it in front of God himself. Fuck whoever thought otherwise. Mickey knows that he didn't have the capacity to fall into such a messy arrangement. He refused to believe it. He ignored how he felt his throat tighten when his redhead smiled at the insults Mickey threw at him. He refused to acknowledge the way his heart beat at a million beats per minute the second that this asshole walked into his sight. He brushed off the way his palms started sweating when Ian touched him in anyway.

He knew anger. He knew bitterness. He knew aggression. He knew what it felt like to have bones crack underneath his knuckles and the satisfaction it brought him. That's what he knew. He didn't know how to be in love. He didn't want to know. He wanted his life to be uncomplicated again.

He didn't notice when Ian stopped snoring like he thought he would. He wasn't able to throw himself off the overly muscled teenager before Ian noticed it and got dumbass thoughts in his head. Ian noticed Mickey's finger tracing out constellations in his plethora of freckles. He got to feel the soft side of Mickey without one harsh word. He got to see a genuine smile on Mickey's face for no other reason than his own presence.

Ian didn't do anything. He just basked in the glory of it all. He closed his eyes again and pretended to be asleep. He would drag it out as long as possible. Ian wasn't stupid. He knew that these oppurtunities wouldn't come often and he knew he probably wouldn't be lucky enough to catch Mickey when he wasn't hypervigilant and terrified of vetting caught with emotions.

He just lay there with Mickey on his chest and his arms wrapped around the shorter boy and pretended that he didn't catch him like this on accident.


End file.
